It's Not Cheating Unless You Get Killed
by Sherryn1
Summary: Sherry and the boys go to Baltimore, Maryland to investigate a man’s mysterious death; he appears to have fallen over fifty stories in his own bed. Meanwhile, Sam struggles with his new powers and Dean comes across a former flame of Sherry’s.


Supernatural

**It's Not Cheating Unless You get Caught**

Timeline: Between episodes 1x15 (The Benders) and 1x16 (Shadow)

Author: Shirin Salehi

Disclaimer: The CW television network has exclusive rights to the characters of Sam and Dean Winchester, and the 67' Chevy Impala and any other belongings associated as such. All other elements are solely my property. All rights reserved.

Summary: Sherry and the boys go to Baltimore, Maryland to investigate a man's mysterious death; he appears to have fallen over fifty stories in his own bed. Meanwhile, Sam struggles with his new powers and Dean comes across a former flame of Sherry's.

The door opens to a large suite at the Crown Residence hotel. A woman with bright red hair walks through the door and places her silver clutch on a gold-gilded table next to a vase of orchids. She glances around the room, her eyes tracing over the rich purple walls and the gold-thread canopy over the king-size bed covered to over-flowing in tasseled velvet pillows, and smiles in awe.

"Are you sure it isn't obnoxious of us to hog the honeymoon suite on our eighth anniversary?"

A blonde man of medium build with handsome features steps through the door and smiles sheepishly at his wife.

"Not at all. Honey, we deserve this and more…," he remarks as he wraps his arms around the eager woman and plants a tender kiss on her lips. She giggles and turns around for more. His hands slowly move toward the hem of her backless dress, unclasping the diamond necklace around her neck on the way.

"Uh-uh!" she teases, pushing him back. "I don't give in that easy…"

"Is that so?" He asks, running his hands down her arms again, trying to catch her lips with his. She laughs again, tossing her lush red curls to the side welcomingly.

"That's right."

He pulls her toward himself, trying again, "Y'know, you looked particularly lovely tonight," kiss, "Your dress really compliments the color of your…" his sentence runs off as he gets distracted by the creamy skin on her neck.

"The color of my hair?" She offers, clearly amused by her charm over him. Truth is, this was the first time in a long time she'd been able to charm him. They made love so scarcely now. It was starting to scare her…..

"Yeah, yeah that," he manages to whisper as he makes his way down her neck. He pauses for a second and that sheepish grin of his comes back.

"But you know where I'd like it more?"

"Hmm?"

"On the floor." And he starts to kiss her lips again. Suddenly the doorbell rings.

"Saved by the bell!" She cheerfully remarks as she pulls away, more than happy to see the disappointed expression on his face.

"Lucille, ignore it," he pleads. She ignores _him_ instead. He stalks back into the bedroom of the suite, sits on the bed, and begins taking off his bow-tie. She comes back in a few seconds.

"Um, honey, there were some problems at the registration desk; they hadn't confirmed our reservation. I'm gonna go clear it up."

"Do you want me to come?" He quickly asks, wanting to be helpful; he still felt guilty. Of course, Lucille didn't know about it, but it didn't take away that nagging feeling.

"No, that's fine. I'll only be a few minutes."

"I'll be waiting". And she slips out the door.

He quickly unbuttons his shirt and pulls off his pants. Throwing the covers aside, he jumps in the bed and turns off the light. He wasn't sure how many minutes had passed; it felt like forever, and he was starting to doze. He can't help but start thinking of Jennifer. Her long legs and blonde hair….

The room suddenly got colder, and he feels goose-bumps rising on his arms. Then again, they could just be coming from the anticipation. The covers rustle a bit, and he wasn't alone in bed anymore.

"You took too long."

The comforter shifts even more as she climbs into bed. She moves closer, so her cool hands rest on his back, and leans in. In one hand she held an icy rose. She whispers in his ear.

"Don't turn on the light".

Lucille searches for the hotel key card in her small clutch. Finally pulling it out, she inserts it in the slot and waits for it to flash green. Nothing happens. It doesn't even flash red. She tries again, but to no avail. She steps back to check if it's the right room. Yes, room 283. Suddenly, a chill runs through her body. Shivering, and pulling the thin shawl closer, she tries the key again.

"It's about time," she mutters, opening the door. "Honey, I'm back. Did you miss me?" She calls in the directions of the bedroom, throwing her shawl and clutch on the over-stuffed couch. The bedroom lights are off. She walks to the bed and sees her husband's figure under the covers. He doesn't answer her. She figures he's probably just annoyed she took so long…

"Come on, don't pout. It's not becoming!" No answer. "Phil?"

She pulls the covers aside and turns the bed-side lamp on.

Then she screams.

SLAM! The two crash against the wall. Sherry's legs are wrapped around his waist. Tight. Her arms are clasped around his neck, pressing her closer to him. Dean's mouth is crushed against hers; his hands rest on her lower back, keeping her up. They move downwards.

The two break the kiss to gasp for air, but this time, his mouth moves down the side of her neck. Hot. She yelps his name between heavy breaths. Her hands tug at the edges of his t-shirt and start pulling it off. He's still working on her neck, and pushes her harder against the wall and let's go with his hands so she can take his shirt off fully. The moment it's off, she throws it against the wall like it's something evil. Then she starts running her hands down the muscles working in his back.

"You really are the best".

Their lips meet again. Hard. Passionate. Wet. Very wet. Her back arches against his body. Her hands press against the chiseled muscles of his chest. He grabs the edge of her cami and in one smooth move throws it on the ground. She giggles against his mouth, but is soon back. With even more tongue. His hands rest on the bronze skin of her back. Hers move down his rock-hard abs and start toying with the zipper on his jeans. Suddenly the kiss gets deeper, more urgent.

The motel room door opens and Sam walks in, "Hey, I think I found - oh, whoa!" His hand flies up to cover his eyes.

Dean jumps and moves to stand in front of Sherry. He looks annoyed. Extremely annoyed.

Sam's cheeks flush rosy pink, "Look, if you want me to come back later…"

"No, your timing's perfect," Dean barks sarcastically. Sherry grabs her clothes and runs to the motel bathroom.

"Seriously, Dean? It's eight in the morning!" Sam complains, finally uncovering his eyes.

"So?" Dean asks, pulling his shirt over his head. He actually looks perplexed.

"I swear, you two are like a couple of rabbits," Sam says, placing his laptop on the table.

"Hey, Sam," Sherry's head pops out from the behind the bathroom door. "You planning to have sex with anyone but yourself this year?" her head disappears again.

"Oh, gross," Dean grumbles, trying to push away the mental image that produced. Sam gives her a WTF look.

"What? It's a legit question!" She walks out of the bathroom in a barely-there lacy black bra. Sam stares. Dean hits him on the back of his head.

"Ow! What?"

She grins but quickly pulls on a tight one-shoulder black top. "Alright, so what you got for me?"

Sam opens his lap-top to a news article, "Shady CEO about to sell some important stocks got murdered in his hotel room bed last night."

Dean frowns, "So what? Some dirt-bag that was gonna screw some people over gets killed? That doesn't sound supernatural; that sounds super-normal."

Sam nods, "Yeah, expect the police say that almost every bone in his body was crushed. It's like he fell from the roof of a 50 story building".

"He could've been moved", Sherry suggests as she leans forward to get a better view of the computer screen. Her face is serious.

Sam shakes his head, "The police found no signs that the body's position had been changed. Nothing to indicate a struggle either. His wife had to leave the room for an hour. She said when she left he was in bed, right where they found him".

"Alright, looks like we have a case," Sherry concludes, straightening her back.

"So let's go have a chat with the Mrs.", Dean says, getting up too. "Hey, Sam, where'd you say this was again?"

"Baltimore, Maryland," Sam curtly replies. Dean groans.

"Why can't there ever be a case somewhere exciting? New York, L.A., Vegas. Y'know, something like a werewolf in Miami," he grabs his jacket and shoves it in a bag. Sherry punches him not so playfully on the arm.

"Eh, never say Miami to a West Coast girl," she warns.

Dean slaps her oh _so_ playfully on the butt, "Ok, West Coast girl, let's get going. This is gonna be an eight hour drive." Sam rolls his eyes and shuts his laptop.

"Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam," Sherry kept up her incessant chant from the backseat of the '67 Chevy Impala, despite the fact that it didn't seem to have any effect.

"Hey, Sam," Dean yelled, keeping one hand on the steering wheel and using the other to whack Sam's arm.

"What?" He awoke with a start. He looked at Dean, who glanced at the girl in the backseat, and then returned to the road. Sam drowsily turned around to face Sherry, who was smiling innocently. "Are we there yet?" he sleepily asks.

"Nope," she cheerfully answers.

"Then why did you wake me?!"

"You were asleep." She said, as if that explained everything. In her mind it probably did.

"Really? I was wondering what I was doing…" Sam replied sarcastically as he turned back around in his seat. He started massaging his temples slowly. Dean gave him a concerned look.

"No, dude, I think she's got an actual point. You've been tired a lot lately," he says in an even voice.

"Yeah," Sam says steadily, "I just haven't been getting a lot of sleep lately. Nightmares."

Dean gives him a rigid look. "Nightmares?" he asks with raised eyebrows. Sam immediately knows what he's implying.

"Yeah, man, just nightmares," he says calmly. That seemed to be enough for Dean, who diverts his attention back to the miles of asphalt they were skimming. It made sense to him that someone doing the stuff they did would have nightmares. A lot of the sons of bitches they hunted could get pretty scary, and Sam had just gotten back in the game a few months ago. It was ok to have nightmares. Those weird-ass visions of his, well, that's what worried him.

However, this did not satisfy Sherry, who completely failed to see the horror in this gig, and preferred to look deeper into things. She lifts one eyebrow at Sam while keeping a straight face. A look that says 'I know you're bullshitting, but I'm not gonna tell'. Sam, who had become an expert at interpreting this expression lately, flashes her a quick grateful smile. Truth is, he hadn't been getting a lot of sleep not because he'd been having nightmares, but because he'd been _trying _not to sleep. It seemed that every time he closed his eyes another vision bombarded his mind. He knew that these abilities of his freaked Dean out, although he'd never show it. Besides, the things he saw were never good. Why would he want to have more? He stared at the American landscape whizzing by him, and couldn't stop himself from thinking about Jessica. Not about the color of her eyes, or the sound of her voice, or the smell of her shampoo. He only thought of finding and destroying her killer.

The Crown Residence hotel is twelve floors high and easily towers over all the other buildings in the area. It is made of white marble. A red carpet stretches from the entrance onto the street. The doors of the main entrance are cast in a gold-tinted flashy metal. The look is completed with two men in red coats standing by. The whole thing couldn't look more out of place in the middle of Baltimore. The three hunters walk in.

Dean whistles, "Whew, this place does not look like a crime scene. What happened to all the shady motels in the world?" The kind of places they circuited usually alternated between questionable residences and stuffy ware-houses.

Sam frowns, "Actually, a shady motel would make a hell of a lot more sense. The demographic in Baltimore is generally poor. Why would anyone build another luxury hotel here?"

"The mayor got screwed," Sherry answered as she took a scan of the area, concentrating heavily.

The lobby was empty except for the staff and a few wandering guests. It looked like it could be any other day of the week.

She continues, "But what I don't understand is why this isn't a bigger story….a guy who falls 50 stories in his own bed. The press lives off of this kind of stuff. It should be blasting all over the news by now. Every journalist in a 20 mile radius should be here. I know I would be."

Sam intercedes again, "It's not all that surprising. The crime rate here is _six_ times that of New York. It makes sense that one more murder would go un-noticed."

Dean looks slightly disturbed, "Sam, this morning, when I was about to get laid, where you doing _research_?"

Sam shrugs innocently, "Well, yeah".

Dean shakes his head and walks faster, dragging a hysterically laughing Sherry with him. Sam looks confused.

"Hey, wait up…."

"Yes, you already said that, but why not?" he says agitatedly through clenched teeth. His voice is smooth but it's obvious he's trying to keep his tempter in check.

The distressed concierge tried to explain, "Sir, I'm sorry, but we've been instructed by the police not to allow anyone to interfere with their investigations. They had a press conference earlier this morning, and I'm sure there will be more soon, but until then –"

The man pulls a thick wad of money from his coat pocket, "Tell me," he says, "how much are these instructions worth to you?" And he starts flipping dollars bills, not 10's or 20's, but hundreds, and _dozens_ of them. The manager gulps and stares at the money like it was wine and he was a very, _very _thirsty man.

"If it isn't the great Stefan Vander-Woodson…" a voice remarks from behind him.

The man turns out around. "Sherry!"

She walks over, head held high. He looks her up and down and speaks charmingly, almost as if he was quoting Shakespeare, but much more professionally, "I suppose absence does make the heart grow fonder". He lifts her hands to his lips and places a kiss on it.

Sam tries to suppress a grin; he was treating her like she was a lady in a bad 50's movie, except this was the year 2006 and Sherry was the farthest thing from a _lady_. He notices Dean eye the guy uncomfortably. He's tall, not quite as tall as Sam, but easily 6'2. He's dressed entirely in black, but his coat alone looks like it would cost more than the Impala. His wavy black hair is gelled back. His broad shoulders indicate a muscular build. He looks about thirty.

Hell, he looks like a former under-wear model.

When he candidly lets go of her hand, she takes one look at the exchange about to take place and turns to Stefan. "They won't let you on the crime scene?"

The concierge's face pumps tomato red. He quickly apologizes and turns around; it was an inexcusable offense to be caught accepting a bribe. Stefan watches him leave with a critical expression. He considers exposing the concierge for corrupt behavior, but decides against it; this was easy game and he only went after the biggest fish in the pond. Then he turns to face Sherry and begins to ask her what she's been up to.

She jumps to a question before he could ask any about her, "So what are you doing here? Wasn't all of New York City a big enough domain for you?"

"No, the only stories there right now are of child abductions and standard bank robberies. Nothing head-line worthy. Not like this. Of course the Maryland press isn't worth shit; they aren't able to spot the best cases in the most conspicuous place in the entire city." He notions around the room with his hand.

"Don't be so sure…big companies have lobbyists, and this guy was the CEO of one. The government could be covering something up," Sherry disagrees, glancing around the large room.

Stefan snorts. "Please, the government is just as incompetent as the press… " He thought for a moment, then said, "Sweetheart, why don't you return to paper? We need the talent."

Sam tries to ignore the way Dean is clenching hit fist. He's probably just picturing himself socking the guy in the mouth for calling her 'sweetheart', but he can't help but wonder….how did they know each other?

She doesn't need to consider the request. "Sorry, baby, but I got my own thing now". She steps towards Dean. "This is my…..associate, Dean Winchester", she notions towards Sam, "and that's his partner, Sam".

A quizzical expressions flashes across Stefan's features, but is quickly replaced with one full of graciousness….and self-righteousness. He extends a hand to Dean, "Pleasure to meet you".

Dean forces an unconvincing smile. He shakes Stefan's hand a little too firmly. "Likewise, I'm sure," he manages to squeeze out from between clenched teeth. Sam, however, easily matches Stefan's courtesy, shaking his hand like they're amiable business partners agreeing on a mutual deal.

True to form, Sherry skips the polite 'bullshit' and gets straight to the point. "They didn't release the room number, and we both know you can't get on a crime scene with that suit on. Give me the location, and I'll give you the scoop. For free".

Stefan smiles indulgently, much like a proud parent does to a child. "I trained you well…..you know I would never trust anyone else with this, don't you?"

Sherry takes note of Dean's agitation and decides to cut the crap. "The room number, Stefan".

"283. The honeymoon suite. Take the elevator on the West Wing to the eleventh floor then turn to the left. It's at the end of the corridor".

The hall was carpeted in a thick red fabric. The cream colored wall paper was lined with gold, and a gold-framed mural appeared on the wall about every fifteen meters. One more pigment of the color, and the place would have looked tacky, but this way, it sent the message loud and clear.

'Elite only'.

As they were walking towards 283, Dean casually asked, "So how'd you know…was it Stephen?"

"Stefan," she immediately corrected. "He was my boss." She answered just as breezily. "We slept together for a while. Nothing serious. Just like a fling. Hey, I think we're getting close, this is room 275".

Another cop stood at the entrance of the hall, except this one looked completely enamored with the chocolate-glazed donut he was holding. He hadn't quiet reached the point of no return, when all the muscle built from the academy some-how mutates into fat, but he was quickly making his way there.

Sherry was about to walk up to him when Dean pulled her back. She flashed him a 'what are you doing look'.

He whispered in her ear, "I'm not gonna let you go off and flirt with every guy in this hotel". He looked at Sam, "You two go and talk to the guy's wife. I got this covered". Then he approached the cop. "Uh, officer, what's going on here?"

The cop looked indifferent. "Some rich guy got wacked".

"Is the body still there?" Dean probed, trying to get more out of him.

"Yep. We hafta keep the crime scene open because the forensics people haven't got their asses down here yet," he grumbled.

"Well, they have now," Dean smiled, pulling one of the multiple ID cards from his pocket and shoving it within two inches of his face. He quickly withdrew it, of course. The card actually identified him as the Ohio state hot-dog eating champion of '99.

The cop looked surprised. "You're forensics?"

"That's right."

He gave Dean a dirty look.

"Ok, so where is she?" Sam asks, looking around the place.

"There," Sherry points to a woman with eye-catching red hair. She has a cheap grey blanket – the kind that's usually carried around in police cars– wrapped around her and is wiping her mascara-streaked eyes with a piece of tissue paper. Everything about her screams 'victim'.

Sherry pulls out a digital recorder from her purse, and motions to Sam. A police officer and a man in civilian clothes stop them. "Excuse me, who are you?" the cop questions in a hostile voice.

Sherry's reply is smooth and professional, "We're reporters from the Bay Mirror. We just want to talk to the victim's wife, get a first hand story."

The cop looks them up and down, "Can I see some ID?"

"Of course," Sam says as he pulls out a card with his picture on it from his wallet. Sherry does the same. The cop compares the people on the card to the people in front of him and seems satisfied. The civilian, however, does not.

"Why haven't I heard of this newspaper before?" His expression is distrustful.

"Are you familiar with the branches of the press here?" she asks in a conversational tone.

"Yeah, I think I am."

Sam considers changing their story, but Sherry jumps in with an explanation before he can. "The Bay Mirror specializes in particular….areas. We only cover the unexplainable stories, and this falls in our category," she states confidently. The civilian looks her straight in the eye. She maintains eye-contact. He then does the same with Sam, who offers a slight smile.

"Fine, but you only have five minutes, that's it. Go."

"Thank you," Sam calls out before rushing to catch up with Sherry, who was determinately striding towards the grieving woman.

Dean scrutinizes the room, looking for anything that could indicate a supernatural occurrence. His eyes scan the doorframe, the edges of the walls, the wallpaper, anywhere that traces of the presence of a spirit could be left.

"Where's your body bag?" the cop gruffly asks.

"I'm sorry, what?" Dean asks, re-focusing his attention.

"Y'know, your body bag? How else are you gonna take the body? And where are all your buddies? Usually there are three or four of you…"

"Yeah, well, the other guys are out working on a case by the pier. Whole stinkin' boat was on fire. Lots of corpses to salvage," he explains, searching the walls of the room for ectoplasm. Violent deaths like this one could be caused by a seriously pissed-off spirit, which would leave traces of the thick black substance in the structure. "They're gonna swing by and take this body later. I got stuck with the case for now".

"Typical," the cop grunts. He points to the direction of the bedroom, "Alright, so the body's in there. Take your time. My bet is, the rest of you ain't gonna be here 'til eight," now he's talking more to himself, "which means I'm gonna miss the game. Assholes." And he walks away.

"Well, aren't you a little ray of sun-shine," Dean says in a hushed voice. He pulls the EMF detector he has fashioned out of an old radio-set from his inner jacket pocket, but keeps it hidden behind the fabric. He turns the device on and begins to discreetly scan the room for a signal. None of the lights turn on, which basically says there are no traces of ghost activity. That doesn't mean anything; if a spirit is only in an area for a short amount of time, it wouldn't show on the detector.

Dean slowly moves on to the bedroom, keeping a close eye on the five cylinder-shaped lights on the detector. He walks by the mahogany dresser, the plush red lounge, the marble-tiled bathroom.

Nothing.

Finally, he steps cautiously around the bed to get a look at the corpse.

"Whoa."

The man's body was bent out of shape. His skin was splotched with angry bruises, most severely near the joints. One arm was bent in an unnatural angle and flopped at his side. The other was pressed tightly into his chest. One of his legs was practically liquid. Bone fragments jutted out of it painfully. His right kneecap popped out of his skin. His spine doubled backwards and his skull was fractured in several places. His eyes were squeezed shut, his jaw clenched in an expression of agony.

Dean kneels next to him, his elbows resting on his knees, "No son of a bitch deserves to die like this". He checks for the signal on the radar.

Still nothing.

"Damn it." He sighs and looks at the man again, "What happened to you?" That's when he noticed it. He cocks his head to side, trying to get a better look at the man's eyes. He reaches over and forces them open. He backs away slightly.

They were cracked.

They hadn't bled at all; pink flesh didn't show through the split, only more stony whiteness. Stone. Almost like marble….

And there was another thing; the pupils and the irises were gone.

He shut the eyes again and left, ignoring the greasy cop on his way out.

"Mrs. Kennedy?" Sam asks the crying woman.

"Yes," she looks up.

"Mrs. Kennedy, we're reporters from the Bay Mirror. We'd like to ask you a few questions about last night's events, if that's alright with you," Sam says, carefully tip-toeing around the emotional woman's feelings.

Lucille looked confused, "I don't understand. I already spoke to the press this morning".

"There are lots of papers in the city," Sam explained.

She nodded. Sherry switched on the recorder. "It is my understanding that you were the one to discover your husband's body. Can you please explain the events leading up to it?" her voice was calm, the voice of someone you could trust. Every reporter practiced that voice.

"Of, of course. Um, we checked in here at about two in the afternoon for our eighth anniversary. We had dinner at the 'Fleur de la Mer' and we came back in the room around one in the morning. There were some complications at the check-in counter, and I went down to straighten things out. I came back about an hour later, and found him like that". Her face crumpled and she buried it in the tissue paper.

Sam seemed sincere, "We're very sorry about your loss". She nodded thought her tears.

"Was your husband acting strange in the hours before his death? Angry, agitated, nervous, scared?" Sherry offered, carefully monitoring the woman's expression for any changes.

She thought for a moment, "A little nervous I guess, sort of ashamed, but he'd been acting that way for almost a week now".

Sam spoke this time, "I apologize for having to ask this, but does your husband have any…enemies? Anyone that might have wanted to hurt him?"

This time her answer didn't require thinking, "No, no. Phil was a very likable man. Very friendly. He got along with everyone".

"And one more thing, did you notice anything unusual about the room? The lights turning on and off, sudden changes in temperature, anything like that?" Sam asked. His forehead was creased.

She looked at him with wide eyes; a frown was beginning to form on her face. Sherry cut in.

"Serial killers often have a certain M.O; they like to leave traces of their existence at the scene of the murder. Sometimes they do things to let their victims know they're there. Like a waning or a trophy mark."

Lucille seemed to accept this as an adequate explanation, "Well, I suppose I did feel a slight chill as I was opening the door. It didn't open at first, but then the hall got cold, and I tried again, but that's nothing. I'm silly for even mentioning it…"

"No, it's fine," Sam assured her. "Thank you for your time".

Sherry waited until they were out of earshot before she asked, "So, what did you get from that?"

"Sounds like the standard ghost haunting. The cold, the door not opening...," he whispered, careful not to be heard, "The locks on the hotel room doors use key-cards so it would make sense if it didn't function. Electrical stuff tends not to work when spirits are around. Their wave-lengths screw up the power flow. My guess is that her husband was haunted by someone that he really ticked off".

"No, she didn't seem to be lying when she said that there's no one who would want to hurt him. I'm willing to bet that it's not him that's haunted. It's the hotel". She could tell Sam disagreed with her.

At that moment Dean ran up to them, the EMF detector still in his hand.

He wrapped his arm around Sherry's waist, but not in an affectionate matter. More….protective. "Alright, so what did you find out?" He questioned as he began leading them through the hall.

"She thinks the hotels haunted, but a spirit who can corporealize enough to crush a man to death has to have some sort of a personal connection to him," Sam points out.

Dean scowls, "So you think it's a ghost?"

Sherry says, "Well, yeah. The signs point to it. The way she described the moments before his death. It works." her face turns serious, like she's concentrating, "But you don't think so. What did you find?"

Dean's reply was simple, "Nothing". Sam raises his eyebrows. "No, I mean nothing, no ectoplasm, no supernatural disturbance, no EMF signals…."

Sam cuts in, "Wait, no EMF? That can't be right. All spirits leave traces of EMF".

"See, that's the thing Sam. I don't think this guy was attacked by a ghost. You didn't see his body. One arm was twisted the wrong way, his leg was jell-o, and he looked like he'd been mobbed by a porcupine from the inside out. I ain't never seen nothin' like it. A ghost couldn't have done that!" He grimaces.

Sherry's face darkens, "So you think a _person_ did this?"

Dean shakes his head, "No, they couldn't have. His eyes were completely white. Not like, 'look, Mom, I can make my eyes roll over' white, but like the guy threw ping-pong balls into his empty eye sockets and stuck them with a hammer….they had cracks in them", he gestures with his hand.

"Like ice?" she guesses.

"No, more like marb-"

"Hey, guys," Sam says, "Do you think we're going in the right direction?"

Sherry and Dean break the conversation and seem to notice their surroundings for the first time….they were walking down the hall to a relatively large set of mahogany doors that were decorated with gold engravings. These opened to the Presidential Suite of the hotel. The walls were set further apart, allowing for a more dramatic effect. The red carpeting was lusher here, and the wallpaper seemed newer than in the West Wing of the hotel. A painting of the sea port hung on one side of the wall. Facing it was a large marble statue of an angel. Her large and delicately carved wings were folded close to her body and her eyes looked down. One hand was placed over her heart. The other held a broken and wilting rose.

Dean walked up to it, "Well, that's nice and creepy".

"It's real," Sherry remarked as she stepped up to examine it examine it too. Her eyes carefully searched the smooth surface of the stone.

"What?"

"The carving. It's not from a mold or anything. It's all hand-done," Sherry explained as she traced her fingers over the statue, "Probably quite a few years old too. I came across a few pieces like this when I was studying design and structure in college. This thing could sell for a lot…" and she was off in her own train of thought.

Sam suddenly looked around, "What's that noise?"

Dean pulled the EMF detector out of the outer pocket of his leather jacket. All five lights were blaring red. "What the hell?"

He stepped away from the statue. Three of the lights switched off. He stepped closer and they all turned on again.

"It's the statue" Sam remarked in surprise.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed through the hall. The cop Dean had come across earlier that day popped up from behind the corner and slid on the tiles, "It's you," he yelled, pointing an angry finger at Dean.

Dean smiles naively, "Who? Me?"

The cop angrily grunts, "Yeah, you, punk. Your buddies didn't show".

"Yes, and I have a logical explanation for all that," Dean laughs nervously, searching for said explanation. "They all …..died".

Sam smacks his forehead while Sherry unsuccessfully stifles a laugh.

Dean continues rambling on, "Yeah, turns out there was another explosion and they all sorta blew up…"

An annoyed Sam interrupts him to keep him from struggling into the rest of his story, "Dean". He motions to the emergency exit with his eyes.

Dean looks at the exit, then back at Sam, "Oh, right". He turns back to the cop. "I gotta go, ciao!" He then proceeds to run towards the door. Sam runs after, then Sherry, who waves goodbye before shutting the door.

The cop grumbles, "Damn forensics".

Sherry swings open the door to the 'Pier 89'. The walls of the large, stuffy room were wood-paneled, and a pool table filled up one section of the place. Everyone in there had at least one tattoo on an extremity, and the air was heavy with smoke, just like in most bars. She spots Sam sitting at a table attentively scanning whatever is on his laptop screen with furrowed brows and an expression of intense concentration. Dean is at the bar with his father's journal open in front of him. Next to him are three shots of whiskey. Two of them are empty.

She is about to go up to him when she notices the bartender slink his way. Tall, blonde, skinny in a boyish kind of way. Hair pulled up in a messy bun. Pretty. She began to flirt, leaning over the bar like she's in an advertisement for A-cup bras.

Dean doesn't pay attention.

Sherry smiles and strides up to them, hips swinging.

"….could get you anything you want. Anything at all," the bartender purrs.

"Thanks, I'm good."

As soon as she was close enough, Sherry lifted herself up so she was sitting on the bar in front of Dean. The bartender glares at her with all the fury of an angry kitten. "Hey, baby," Sherry says as she grabs the color of his shirt and slides her mouth over his. He responds a little too eagerly for the bartender's taste. She smirks and walks away. Sherry smiles.

The she pops back down from the bar and slides in next to him. "Any idea what it could be?" She asks, scanning the page he was looking at. It was titled 'Familiars'. She gets as far as 'familiars can pose as people close to the…' before Dean shuts the book, and gives an exasperated sigh, "Unless Casper became a statue and grew wings, then no, I'm fresh out of ideas".

"Well, what if the signal wasn't coming from the statue itself, maybe something near it…." She suggests, looking for some sort of a lead. Sherry wasn't used to not having a clue, and she didn't like it.

"Nah, I doubt it. There wasn't a hell of a lot around the thing. I didn't get much of a look though, that damn cop showed up."

Sherry raised her voice a bit, "Seriously, what was his problem? We weren't even on the freaking crime scene…."

Dean shrugged, "Yeah, well, Baltimore cops are real jackasses". He shut the book in dismay.

Sam finally broke his concentration enough to look up from the computer screen and notice Sherry's recent arrival. He abruptly snapped the laptop off of the scratched table, dragging his bag along with him. He walked over to where the other two were sitting and landed the laptop on the bar with a thud.

The official website of the hotel was open on the screen. He motioned to the text on the page, "Take a look at this".

Dean began scanning the paragraphs, reading aloud as he went, "…built in 1950…..exemplarity facilities….history of serving the best….. awarded metal of….. was expanded in 1963 when the East Wing was built…"

Sam broke in, "Stop right there. The East Wing is the section of the hotel where the statue was in, and if it was built later, then that means the statue had to have been put there later".

Dean frowned at him, "That's all you got? Man, we can't go on that…."

Sherry was staring at the screen. She quietly murmured, "No freaking way".

Sam glanced at her, then back at the web page, "What?"

She looked up at him in a daze, then grabbed her purse and pulled a small red flash-drive out of it. She stuck it into the computer and opened a document. Pointing at the screen, she exclaimed, "Deaths. Over a dozen deaths. All in this hotel".

"What? How did I miss that? I practically turned the Internet upside down looking for murders related to the hotel," Sam objected, clearly surprised.

Sherry nodded, "No, it makes sense that you wouldn't find anything. Incidents like this kill business for a five star hotel. They must have paid a hell of a lot of money to keep it under covers".

Dean snapped his fingers, "That's why the cop got so pissed when he found out I wasn't a real fed. He was getting paid off".

"Uhuh, and why there weren't any reporters on the scene," Sherry added in agreement, "But that's not even the best part….all the victims had similar causes of death; they were either strangled, crushed, or thrown on or against something with a lot of force. And get this, the first victim was killed in July of 1963".

The boys' eyes widened in surprise. Dean muttered, "So what you're saying is that the statue is going around squishing people?"

She nodded.

Sam slowly spoke, "A stone statue would be more than strong enough to crush a human body. Plus, stone doesn't leave traces of EMF".

Sherry corrected him, "Not stone. Marble". She then highlighted a section of the text, "The victims all had one thing in common; all their eye-balls had been replaced with marble spheres, except without of a sign of them ever having been removed; none of the nerve endings had been severed".

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sam said, "Sherry, how did you find all this?"

"Stefan".

Dean froze, "Yeah, well, I don't care who your source is. A statue killing people? I'll believe it when I see it". She gave him a hard look.

Sensing the tension that had suddenly built up, Sam tried to bring the focus back to the case, "But I don't see a connection between the dates of the murders. Sometimes several occur in the same month, other times there are gaps as long as two years. It's almost as if they're happening at random".

She nodded, "And the victims don't have a lot in common, except for the fact that they're all adults. Most of them were men, but a few were women as well. Different jobs, different backgrounds, different origins. I can't find a connection".

Dean easily downed the last one of the shots. He didn't even grimace. Slamming the small glass on the table, he said, "Alright. So I guess the big question now is who's bringing that thing to life".

Sam stared at the motel ceiling. He was lying in bed with his clothes on. He figured he'd be less comfortable that way. His eyes were wide open and about a half a dozen empty paper coffee cups stood on the bedside table. He tried to make patterns between the stains on the ceiling but his mind kept drifting to his unwelcome thoughts.

He thought about his visions; he thought about the powers he was developing; he thought about finding his father. But most of all, he thought about hunting down the thing that killed Jessica….and his mom. Sam didn't remember his mother at all. He didn't know her. She was a ghost to him. A flawless, virginal goddess that his brother and father worshipped.

Of course all that had changed when they returned to Lawrence a few months ago. He finally got to see what his mother looked like, aside from in old photographs. He knew for the first time that she truly loved him…died trying to save him. He didn't know whether to feel guilty or proud about that. Either way, it was his visions that led him here. Could they really be all bad?

Dean seemed to think so. He thought anything that made you different, less human, also made you a freak. A monster. Sherry was the polar opposite. She encouraged him to try to harness his powers enough to control them. Use them for good.

He didn't know what to do.

Slowly, unwillingly, he stopped fighting it and let his eyes shut close.

In the room next door, Dean put his engraved 45' in the case attached to his belt, covering it with his heavy jacket, "I'm gonna go take another look at that statue".

"I'll come with you," Sherry volunteered. She was sitting on the bed with an assortment of guns, bullets, and knives scattered around her.

"No, two people would attract more attention than one. I can handle it".

But of course Sherry was too stubborn to just give in, "Dean, it's the statue. Why do you wanna go over there when you know that?"

His voice was even, "No, you know that. I don't".

Sensing that this wasn't an argument she was gonna win, she said "How long do you think it'll take?"

He shrugged, "Depends on how much security they have on the place. Might be a while. Don't bother waiting up for me".

She smiled, "Baby, you know I'll always wait up for you".

He didn't know why, but that made him feel better. He wrapped his arms around her and let their lips touch. Not in the usual intense way, but softer. Gentler. She began to tug him towards the bed but he unclasped his arms and walked towards the door.

"Don't have too much fun," she warned. He grinned and walked out. She went to the window.

Dean Winchester sneaked through the back door of the Crown Residence hotel. This led to the kitchen and the food storage units. He ducked behind a wheeled cart as an exhausted-looking chef trudged past him, dragging a sizeable garbage bag behind him. When the chef went outside to dump the trash, Dean snaked his way through the kitchen and followed the passageway waiters used to take room service trays to their desired location. Unluckily, nobody orders room service so late at night, so the passageway lights were off. Nonetheless, he was expertly able to maneuver past the sharp twists and turns in the path.

He went up eleven flights of steps to the top floor where he reached a locked door. He quickly pulled a paper clip out of his jacket pocket (he always carries one since the incident with the cannibal family in Minnesota) and effortlessly opened the lock.

"Childs' play," he quietly murmured as he smiled to himself.

Creakily, he opened the door and entered the West Wing. It was easy to identify the Honeymoon Suite from the yellow tape blocking the door. He followed the familiar path past the other rooms and made his way towards the statue.

He turned the corner, expecting the EMF detector to start buzzing. Nothing. He steps closer towards where he remembers the statue was placed. Still nothing. Puzzled, he grabs the flashlight from his jacket pocket and switches it on.

"What the hell?!"

The statue was gone.

He taps the flashlight against his hand. Turns it on and off. No change. Surely, the statue was missing. Only the pedestal remains. He noticed some impressions on the base of the stand. Bending down, he saw that Latin words were engraved on the marble. They read:

savior illorum quisnam subsisto vacuus sileo

patefacio sanctio expleo explevi expletum per quis wen vacuus res effort

"Where's Sammy the Latin Slayer when you need him?"

"Daddy, why isn't Mommy here?" Michelle asked her father. She was a six-year old girl with blonde hair and a face filled with freckles. Her father was a U.S. senator. Lucky girl.

Sighing, the man replied, "Mommy just needed some alone time. You'll see her later, I promise". He wasn't entirely lying, he told himself. He was sure Michelle would see her mother again. But would _he_ see is wife again? That was debatable. He doubted it. He had never seen Caroline so angry. So hurt. He knew he never should have done it, but he couldn't resist. He laughed at the irony and thought, 'I'm a regular Bill Clinton'. This was going to be a scandal.

Tired, he made his way to bed, and instructed his daughter to do the same.

"But Daddy, I wanna finish my show first," she complained. Not having enough energy to argue with her, he complied.

"Fine, but go to bed right after it's done, okay".

He then turns off the light, crawls into bed and tries to rest. Unexpectedly, he feels too cool hands creep up his back. She was holding a cold rose in her hand; her favorite flower. He didn't know how she had gotten here, but she had. Hadn't Michelle noticed her come in? He didn't even turn to face her.

"Holly, I told you I don't want to see you again. My daughter is in the room. Besides, we're finished. My wife found out…."

She didn't reply, instead, she just leaned in and whispered in his ear, "Don't turn on the light".

Just as Dean had finished copying down the inscription on a piece of paper, a shrill scream erupts from the right. Jumping into action, he busts through the doors of the Presidential Suite, where the cry was coming from. He quickly identifies the source of the scream to be a little girl standing in the living room of the suite. She was facing the bedroom. Dean suddenly feels an all-too familiar chill slither down his spine.

"Ghosts".

As soon as the feeling disappears, he races towards the bedroom to find a terrified man lying in bed. He had gotten there soon enough so this one wouldn't be mashed, but the man did not have the ability to appreciate this. Alarmed, he yells "What the hell are you doing here?"

Dean tries to calm him down before he does something stupid, "Sir, the thing you just saw, you have to tell me – "

The man yells again, "Saw? The only thing I see is a stranger in my room. I told you to get the hell out!"

Dean begins hearing noises from outside the room and realizes the man's yells are waking up the other guests; he decides to leave before he has an angry mob on his back.

"Ok, ok. Relax, I'm going". Slowly, with both hands held up, Dean makes his way out the door. Astounded – and thankful – he realized that there were no other guests on that floor. But what he saw next shocked him even more; the statue was back. Back on the pedestal like it had never been anywhere else.

"Well, I'll be damned".

The Impala pulled up in front of the South Port Motel one and a half hours later. The motel was comprised of thirty or so separate rooms all on the same land. Sam's room was next to theirs. Dean quickly got out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He rushed to his motel room, in a hurry to tell Sherry what had just happened. He tried to open the door but found out it was locked….that was strange. He kept telling Sherry to lock the door when she was alone in the room. He kept telling her it was dangerous, but of course she never listened. Why would it be locked now? Dean quickly took out his own key.

The lights were off. The bed was empty.

But she had promised…

For one awful moment, Dean thought she was with _Stefan_. Why wouldn't she go to him now? Sherry hated being left behind. She hated having to wait. Hated doing nothing. Dean bet _he_ wouldn't make her sit around in a stuffy motel room. Probably drop her off at the spa or something.

But no, she'd never do that. She'd told him she loved _him_. And the thing with Stefan was just a fling. It didn't mean shit. She'd never do that. Then why did it make him so mad? Why did it make him so mad to think of that pompous arrogant asshole putting his manicured hands on her? Dean's hands instinctively balled into fists.

Suddenly he noticed that the light in Sam's room was on. Didn't Sam normally sleep early? It was three o'clock. He noticed two figures moving around in the room. He'd never thought about it, but his brother was a relatively good-looking guy, if a little short on the masculine side. What if Sherry was with _Sam_? 'No,' he told himself, 'don't be an idiot, Dean. She probably just got bored. They must be talking about women's shoes or something'. He laughed at the image of Sam looking through an issue of Cosmo, but he couldn't help himself from going outside and peeking in through Sam's window.

What he saw made him feel guilty as hell. She wasn't off screwing some guy….

Sam was sitting on his bed. He held his head in his hands like he was having a really bad migraine. Sherry was mixing a drink or something. She walked over and gave it to him. He took it gratefully and gulped it down, wincing at the taste; Sammy never was much of a drinker. Then she sat down on a chair across from him. They stayed that way for a while.

How hadn't he known his little brother was in so much pain?

Sam groaned again. He was sitting on the bed rubbing his temples. He always had an unbearable headache after one of his dreams. He didn't even remember what this one was about; just that it made him feel like crap.

"I promise this'll help."

Sherry stood by the dresser. She was crushing exactly six sleeping pills on a piece of tissue paper. When they had been smashed into a white power, she grabbed a bottle of scotch from the liquor cabinet and poured some in a beer glass. Then, she emptied the powder in it and mixed it around with a coffee stirrer.

Sam kept his eyes on the cheap red carpeting and said, "Where'd you learn this stuff?"

She looked at him like she was saying something obvious, "Sam, I was a reporter for two years". He managed a smile before grimacing again as another wave of pain washed over him. She walked over, holding the glass, "Here".

Sam quickly grabbed it and gorged some down. He immediately scrunched up his face when he tasted the alcohol in the mixture, but drank some more when the taste lost some of its strength as his mouth grew numb. Laughing, she held out the slice of lemon she had in her other hand.

"Knew you'd need this".

"Thanks," he said, taking it from her. Then she pulled up a chair and sat so she was facing him.

"It's gonna get easier, y'know".

He shrugged, "I'm not so sure. I just wish it'd go the hell away".

She spoke firmly, "It's a gift. Sam, don't you see? You can _save_ people with this".

"A gift? It's a curse. I'm a freak."

She shook her head. "I don't care what anyone- even Dean – thinks. This doesn't make you a freak. It's an opportunity. Take it".

He nodded slowly, not fully believing what she was saying, but more than happy the headache was beginning to subside.

"Just remember, six sleeping pills and two shots of scotch for when it gets too bad," she advised, getting up and touching his shoulder for a moment. Then she returned back to her room.

Sherry was glad to see that Dean wasn't back yet. This was good….she didn't want him to know about Sam. This was one thing he couldn't protect his little brother from, and she loved him too much to watch him try and fail.

Just as she always did, she waited for him to come back. Hours passed, but no sign. Fighting her eyelids, Sherry tried to stay up….

Sam woke up at nine the next morning. He felt good. Better than he had in weeks. No nightmares. No visions. Just quiet, uninterrupted sleep. He realized just how much he had missed that.

The sun flooded into the motel room. It was about ten in the morning when Sherry woke up in bed. In a night gown. She didn't remember changing. She didn't even remember falling asleep. Promptly, she realized she was alone in bed. She felt her throat tighten intolerably; what if he hadn't come back? What if something had happened? She turned on her side to see Dean sitting on a chair by her bed. He was watching her intently. His face didn't give anything away, but his gorgeous green eyes were tender and yielding. Liquid. Beautiful.

"Hey," she said sleepily, "Something wrong?"

He didn't reply. Instead he just walked towards the bed and placed a soft kiss on her forehead in a way that was just so characteristically unlike him it made her wonder what was going through his head. Then he put on his jacket and left the room, saying, "I'll brief you and Sam in the car. Come on".

"So the - it tried to kill again?" Sam inquired, summing up Dean's account of last night's events. Dean didn't look away from the road, but nodded. One of his hands was on the steering wheel; the other was wrapped around the underside of Sherry's knee. "I don't know, man," Sam continued, "maybe the victims _are_ picked at total random. Whoever is close by at the time…"

"No," Sherry stated, rejecting the theory, "there has to be a pattern. There's always a pattern". She twirled her long dark brown hair around a finger and tried to find some sort of a link. No such luck.

For the second time, three hunters stepped into the lobby of the Crown Residence. "Okay," Dean said, taking charge, "Sam, you go take another look at that statue. Sherry, you try to find some connection between the victims. I'm gonna go make the manager sweat a little; see if he knows anything".

"Yes sir," Sherry said enthusiastically.

"Okay," Sam uttered a bit less excitedly. He did not like his brother bossing him around like he was some _kid, _but he could also recognize that this was not the best place for an ultimatum.

"Hey, wait, I almost forgot," Dean says, pulling a crumpled piece of paper out of his jean pocket, "There was a Latin inscription on the top of the pedestal. I copied it down; see if it means anything to you". He hands Sam the paper. Sam merely glances at it, nods, and walks away.

It looked….well, it looked like marble. Not marble that could spontaneously be inspired to come to life and compress some poor un-expecting human. Just marble that sits there day in and day out. Sam examined every corner of the thing, but that was the only conclusion he could come to. Just marble. He then turned his attention to the engraving Dean said was on the base. He searched the pedestal for the writing but couldn't find it. He realized that it must be under the statue; that's how they missed it the first time through. The statue had to be gone for you to see it. He un-crumpled the paper Dean had given him and tried to translate the script.

savior illorum quisnam subsisto vacuus sileo

patefacio sanctio expleo explevi expletum per quis wen vacuus res effor

"Savior of those who stay without rest," he recited, trying to remember the professor's lectures from Latin 101, "the open sanctuary – no, hollow, the open hollow - to fill with what went unexpressed".

But that didn't make sense. Suddenly sure that Dean had copied something down wrong, Sam decided to try and take a look at the inscription himself. Unsuccessfully, he tried to lift the statue from its place, wrapping his arms around it and pushing with all his strength (which was a considerable amount).

"I think it's too heavy".

Sam turned to see a little blonde girl standing by the doors of the Presidential Suite, staring at him. She couldn't have been more than seven. Her face was packed with freckles, and she clutched a doll in her hand.

"You shouldn't steal stuff, y'know".

Sam starts, "Oh, no, no. I'm not trying to steal this. I just want to get a good look at it".

"Why? It's creepy", she said, scrunching up her nose.

Sam shrugged. He couldn't tell her otherwise; she was right.

"I'll believe you," she went on in her high-pitched, girlish voice, "but only because you're cute".

That made Sam smile. And blush. Just a little. He moved towards the girl, and kneeled so they saw eye-to eye; he had just realized that this might very well be the little girl Dean saw last night. "What's your name?"

"Michelle".

"That's a really pretty name. So, Michelle, why are you staying here?"

She looked sad for a moment, "My Mommy and Daddy had a fight. She said she wants to be alone, so Daddy and I came to stay here for a while. He says she's not mad at me, just him. I miss her".

This was not the direction Sam wanted to go in, but he figured if he continued the conversation he might eventually hit something relevant. "Oh, I'm sorry. Why is your Mom mad at your Dad?"

She thought for a moment. Then she slowly started talking, "I'm not sure, but I think it's because of Holly".

"Who's Holly?" Sam asked in a kind voice.

"Holly works with my Dad. She's been coming to our house a lot. When her and Daddy are in his office, he always locks the door. Sometimes I hear her screaming. I don't know what they're doing, but I don't think it's good. That's why Mommy and Daddy had that fight," she stated innocently.

Sam didn't know what to tell the girl. He decided to reassure her that everything would be okay. "Well, I don't think Holly is going to come back. And I'm sure your parents are going to work things out".

She frowned, "But that's the thing. Last night I thought Holly _did _came back. I went to say goodnight to Daddy and I saw someone in his _bed_. It was so weird. Then I saw that her skin was white. Like really white".

Sam's eyes widened. He tried to keep his voice low and calm. "Are you sure what you saw last night wasn't Holly?"

She nodded fervently, "Holly 's blac – oops, I mean African American. 'Sides, it went away when this guy came in".

With a concerned expression, Sam thanked her and headed down to the lobby. For whatever reason, this thing was after this little girl's father, and he had a feeling it was going to come back tonight.

"Dean, is it?"

Dean was heading towards the manager's office when the polished voice interrupted him. He turned to see Stefan Vander Woodson sitting on one of the hotel's opulent but uncomfortable lounges with his legs crossed European-style. His suit was silk and his cuff-links platinum. He smiled politely, got up, and offered his hand in yesterday's arrogant manner.

Dean did not take it. Instead, he looked at it like it was something that had been pulled out of a sewer. He grunted and offered a fake smile, "Nice to see you again".

Stefan acted like he hadn't notice the intentional indecorous behavior, and began chatting with him like they were old pals. "So, how is Sherry? I suppose the two of you are serious now."

Dean smirked, "What's it to you?"

"Nothing. I'm just curious….you see, for Sherry, eight months is a very long time to stay with someone. I wonder… what is it about you that attracted her?"

"Why? Because she didn't stay with you?" Dean replied smugly.

Stefan laughed, "You don't understand. Sherry and I never dated. She was my mistress. I don't suppose she told you that, considering your….nature". Dean's expression turned to anger. Stefan went on as if he didn't care, "But you see, you can't possibly make her happy". This was said not as an opinion, but as a simple fact.

Dean's upper lip began to twitch. How he wanted to let his fist do the talking, instead he just snapped, "Oh, yeah? And what makes you think that?"

"Oh, she might be content now. She craves the excitement your lifestyle offers, and you're dangerous. She loves that…The fact that you're a hunter makes you more appealing to her".

Dean tried to hide the surprise that was apparent on his face, "How did you know about that?"

"I'm good at what I do. Why do you think she left the paper? Nevertheless, eventually, she will grow tired of cheap motels and diners. In New York she could have the best service offered to her; dine on the most expensive cuisine the world has to offer. Champagne and roses every night. Diamonds and brand names. Tell me, which do you think she would choose?"

All anger disappeared from Dean's face as he started considering what Stefan was saying; what should have had been so obvious to him from the moment he met her. She had had a choice; why had she chosen this? What made him think she would continue to choose this?

Stefan persists, stepping closer to Dean, who was no longer looking at him. "You're not what she really wants; what she needs, and eventually she's going to realize that. Make it easier for yourself. Make a clean break". Dean looked him in the eye. Maybe he was right. Stefan suddenly looked at his Rolex, "I'm so sorry for taking your time. I know you have important things to do. I'll leave you to your….business". With that he turned on the heel of his Italian shoes and strode away, leaving Dean in the lobby with his new-found fear.

Sherry stood staring at the door to the Honeymoon Suite. She toyed with the large beads on the long strands of her necklace. In her head she ran through every potential way the victims could be related. There were many possible leads to follow but no plausible ones. Maybe Sam was right; maybe the killings were random.

"It's a shame, isn't it?"

She turned to see the speaker was an old woman wearing a maid's uniform. Her white hair had been neatly tucked under her cap. Her wrinkled face looked worn out; like it had experienced too much, been through too much. She stood next to a trolley nestled with soft towels and small bottles of shampoo, perfume, body lotion, and an assortment of other toiletries.

"Yeah, it really is".

The maid squinted her eyes, "How much do you know about this murder?"

Sherry started, "Not much. Just that a CEO was crushed in his bed. In this room….. Interesting that you use the word 'murder'".

The maid shook her head poignantly, "What else could it be? What else could all of the others have been?"

"The others?" Sherry asked, knowing the maid was referring to the other similar deaths that had taken place in the hotel, but wanting to know what she knew.

"Yes. There have been exactly sixteen other murders just like this one in this hotel. Of course I can't tell anybody about it, but I've seen things. Horrible, horrible things. It all started with Margaret Spinner," she said, speaking grimly. Sherry recalled that Margaret Spinner was a woman who had disappeared in the same year that the construction had begun. She hadn't paid much attention to it because it was reported as a missing person's case rather than a death. Despite this, she asked who she was anyway.

"It was the year 1963. I had just started working at the hotel then, must have been nineteen or twenty at the time. I recall that was when the construction had begun. Anyhow, Margaret was a guest that had been staying here with her husband. They were in one of the rooms in the West Wing. She was a kind girl, very sensitive, though. She and I had talked once. Late one night, as I was delivering fresh towels to a nearby room, I remember hearing this dreadful yelling coming from their room. Things were being slammed against the wall and I could hear the sound of glass shattering. I hid behind the corner in my terror. Suddenly, their words grew clearer, most distinct".

Deeply interested in the story, Sherry asked, "What did they say?"

The maid thought for a moment, "Oh, I don't remember what they said exactly, but from what I understood, Mr. Spinner had been with another woman, and Margaret wanted to leave him. Anyhow, the screaming continued for a few more minutes, and then there was an awful crash. Then everything was quiet. A few moments later...." the old woman stopped speaking and her hands began to shake.

Sherry realized she shouldn't make her continue with the story; that it would not be good for her state of mind, if not her health, but she was not going to let that little girl lose her father this way. "Go on," she urged.

"A few moments later," the old woman stuttered, "Mr. Spinner carried out Margaret's limp body from the room. Her face was bruised, and her arms were bloody and broken. He took her in the direction of the construction, where the East Wing was being added. They never found the body". The woman clutched her heart with a wrinkled hand, "That poor, poor girl. I didn't tell anyone, no. I was too afraid….but now….."

Sherry could hardly contain her excitement. "Thank you," she cried before sprinting in the direction of the lobby.

Dean was sitting on the arm of one of the lounges on the lobby and staring at the floor when Sherry and Sam approached him, each from a different direction. Both immediately noted the distraught expression on his face.

Sam asked, "Did you find anything?"

Dean broke out of his reverie, "No, nothing. You?"

Sam said, "Just that the man you saved last night had been cheating on his wife with a co-worker, and that his daughter knew about it. She thought that was who was in bed with him".

"Did she figure out what it was?" Sherry asked, fighting her urge to burst with the information she held; it all fit together now. She didn't notice just how loud she was.

"No, thank god," Sam whispered, trying not to draw attention, "She just thought it was someone else. Someone really pale".

Dean uttered, "So we still don't know how it picks it victims?"

"Actually, I think I figured that one out. Cliff notes version…." Sherry said, finally getting to rush through her explanation.

"Where I come from, they'd beat you up if you ordered that," Sherry said as Sam sat down on a stool in the coffee-shop with his half-caff, half-cream, vanilla-hazelnut latte with skimmed milk.

Sam grinned and said, "Where I come from, I _did_ get beat up for ordering this".

"Well, I had to do something, didn't I? You were turning into a wussbag," Dean said, take a sip of his own black coffee.

"Alright, so where are we at with the case?" Sherry asked after her burst of usual child-like laughter.

Sam said, "Well, we know the statue is gonna come back to life tonight to kill that man, so I say we get him out of there".

"And then do what? Interview every guest the hotel ever has to find out if they're faithful? No, we gotta destroy that thing – which brings up the question, how the hell do you kill a statue?" Dean barks.

"Maybe moving it to a storage facility or something would be enough. Or better yet, turning the thing into powder," Sherry suggests.

"Nah, that sounds way too easy. If it's strong enough to do this, then it has to be strong enough to win a fight with a hammer just so it can kill more cheating bastards," Dean stated.

Sam looked at him quizzically, "Since when are you so anti-cheating?"

"Since now," Dean replied gruffly, "What, you got a problem with me bein' a decent human being?"

"No, no, it's just that it's not you," Sam said jokingly.

"Whatever," Dean said in mock anger.

"Ok. Statue. Killing. Focus," Sherry exclaimed, frustrated with her duo, "Thinking now. Bitching later".

Sam suddenly sat up in his chair, "That's what the inscription must have meant".

"What?"

"The inscription, it read: savior of those who stay without rest, the open hollow to fill with what went without being expressed. If the statue is a hollow for unexpressed emotion, then Margaret's spirit – "

"Is controlling it so she can get her revenge on any other unfaithful person that stays at the hotel," Sherry completed.

"Well, that's a lovely little breakthrough there, but we still don't know how to kill it," Dean said, thinking practically.

"Got any bright ideas?" Sam snapped.

Dean ran a hand through his hair a couple times, then said, "Ok, so if the statue is gonna be in the guy's room tonight, then I say we go there and wing it".

"Wait," Sam interrupted, "So, you're volunteering the guy as bait? What if he doesn't agree?"

"Oh, I know how to fix that," Dean grinned sheepishly, "We don't tell him".

"What?" Sam practically yelled. He then glanced around at the other customers looking at him and hushed his voice. "We can't do that, Dean. It's immoral".

"Well, whaddya want me to do Sammy? The kind senator wasn't exactly thrilled to have me in his room last night, even if I was saving his ass," Dean answered roughly.

"It's a bad plan," Sam announced.

"Yeah, well , it's the only one we've got. So unless you suggest my boyfriend sleeps with some girl so we can use ourselves as bait, then it's the one we're gonna use," Sherry said firmly without a touch of sarcasm in her voice. Sam stared at his coffee cup and didn't reply. She took this as a sign of agreement.

"Okay," Dean said, "So how are we gonna know when it's gonna attack?"

Sam suddenly looked up, "I have an idea".

"Okay, so whenever you feel a chill, you're gonna give me a call on my cell, okay?" Sam said gently.

Michelle nodded her head obediently. Sam got up and walked towards Sherry and Dean.

"I still think this is a bad idea," he said unhappily.

"Yeah, well, quit whining sweetheart. It's gonna work," Dean says. Sam smirks.

"Ok, so at around what time did the thing attack last night?" Sherry asked impatiently.

"Um, like one thirty in the morning".

"Great," Sherry groaned sarcastically, "So what do we do until then?" Dean winked at her.

Sam caught the look and immediately said, "No. This place does not rent out rooms by the hour".

"Okay, then big guy. What's your idea?" Dean complained.

Sam thought for a moment.

"Research?" Sherry asked incredulously. They were seated at a table with the laptops open in front of them.

"We still don't know how to kill that thing," Sam reasoned. They hear a snoring sound coming from nearby. Both look at Dean, who is fast asleep with his head resting on the table. Sherry whacks it.

"If I'm suffering, then so are you. He's your brother," she explained when he drowsily opened his eyes. Sam laughed.

They were all asleep when the phone rang. Sam snapped it open to see who was calling. It was Michelle. Dean got up and checked his watch, "We're asleep at one fifteen. Man, that is so _pathetic_!"

"Come on," Sam says urgently, getting up.

The three ran through the corridors of the hotel until they reached the Presidential Suite. With one leg, Dean easily kicked the door open. Michelle was sitting on the couch. Her eyes were shut and her hands covered her ears. She was singing 'I'm a little teapot' loudly. Sherry and Dean, each clutching a shotgun filled with several of the cylinder shaped salt-rounds, dashed toward the room while Sam shook Michelle's shoulder and told her to run, which she did dutifully. He then followed them into the room.

The white figure was crouched over the man's figure, except now it was livid with the blue veins pulsing through it. At their arrival it turned to face them, its face no longer serene. Instead it was twisted with the ugly expression of hate; a desire for revenge. Its eyes, very life-like, throbbed with white hot rage. Dean, with perfect aim, immediately fired a round of salt into its chest. The creature dispersed for a moment, but quickly reformed.

Sherry pivoted on one foot and kicked it straight on the side, which sent it flying into the wall. However, this did not phase it at all, and it scattered like vapor and came back with vigor, swinging at her head. She quickly ducked and popped right back up. Dean and Sam kept firing rounds, trying to keep it form corporealizing.

Eventually, the guns both ran out. "Dammit," Dean yelled, throwing his shotgun on the floor. Sam rapidly began to refill his own Ethica Pump so he could keep firing. Sherry tried to take another kick at it, but this time it grabbed her ankle with a repulsive, veined hand and sent her crashing through the window. She grabbed onto the sill just in time, but the shattered glass kept her from climbing back up.

Dean ran towards the creature and grabbed its arm, slamming it on the ground. It yanked him down and moved over him. He used his feet to push it off and spun, his fists ready to throw some punches. The thing was flung towards the bathroom, where it hit a water pipe that suddenly ruptured. The senator took this chance to unsteadily climb out of bed. His arm was badly bruised and his eyes were widened in horror. Sam ran over and helped him up. The two of them ran out of the room, the man leaning on Sam.

Dean twisted and tried to fling the statue out of the room but he moved too quickly and gave it leverage. It gripped his neck and pressed him against the wall. Sam ran back in the room at that point.

"Sam," Dean groaned through the strong-hold the thing had on him, "get the inscription".

Sam immediately knew what he meant; if the inscription was what allowed the spirit to control the statue, then destroying it would take away that power. Grabbing a loose pipe that had fallen out of place when the statue had crashed into it, he ran towards the base of the statue. The script was glowing an eerie bright blue. With all his might, he sent the pipe crashing towards the shine. Everything turned bright for a moment, forcing Sam to cover his eyes. When he re-opened them, he saw that the pedestal had cracked in two.

Dean could feel his air supply begin to run out. He had tried fighting the icy grip but to no avail. Suddenly, the creature looked deep in his eyes and seemed to see something there. It instantly let go. Moments later, it erupted in a bright burst of blue light. As soon as the blinding beam had disappeared, Dean ran towards the windowsill and easily pulled Sherry up. She gripped onto his collar.

Sam ran back into the room and sighed in relief. A few moments later, he frowned and said, "Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that you're okay, but why didn't that thing kill you? I thought you were toast".

Sherry answered for him, "Maybe it saw that my man isn't a cheater". She smiled and kissed Dean eagerly.

Sam stood staring at the bottle of sleeping pills. 'Six of these and two shots of scotch for when it gets really bad' she had said.

When it gets really bad.

But what if it kept getting worse and worse? What if he became like Max? What if he became a killer? No, Dean would never let that happen, _he_ would never let that happen.

But what if he did?

How many others were there? How many other innocent people had Yellow Eyes killed? How many other children were poisoned because of him?

Max had gone crazy. What made him so different that he wouldn't?

And then he realized what; he wasn't weak. He wasn't going to let these powers take over him. _He _wasn't going to let his visions control him.

With a fierce determination, Sam grabbed the bottle of pills, opened the lid, and emptied them all into his open palm.

Then he walked to the bathroom and flushed them down the toilet.

He didn't need pills.

The night sky was pitch black, but single white stars radiated from the darkness. She lay on the hood of the Impala. Her elbows supported her body, and her legs dangled over the edge. She only wore a tank top in the chilly weather, but she didn't seem to care. Her head was tilted back and her eyes were closed. It was like she was in her own world. She tuned out like that sometimes.

She belonged on white silk sheets, not stained motel linens.

Maybe Stefan was right….

Dean stood there and stared at Sherry. Then, slowly, he stepped towards the Impala and leaned on the hood with his hands in his pockets. He stared at the road. She made no indication to show that she knew he was there, just stayed that way, with her head tilted towards the sky and her eyes shut.

"Can I ask you a question?" His voice was steady. Emotionless.

He couldn't hear the dread in his own voice, but he knew it was there. The air buzzed with electricity and every gust of wind seemed to throw more tension at them. What if she said no? How would she react? Anger? Disgust?

Sherry opened her eyes. She realized that she couldn't read his expression from the position she was in so she sat up and slid forward on the hood until she was almost on the edge. Then she crossed her legs. His face was just as impassive as his voice. He didn't even look at her. She was teeming with curiosity but she tried to control it.

"Anything".

He paused for a moment, reconsidering his words. Did he want to hear the answer? Dread. He spoke in the same detached way when so much was hanging on his words.

"Are you happy?"

This was _not_ what she expected. She thought he was going to ask her about Stefan, about whether or not she had loved him; that would have been completely in character. She knew he was more than a little territorial. Answering that one would have been easy. 'No! Of course not! It was an affair; just a stupid fling. I _never_ felt a thing for the man'. Easy.

But answering this one would be easier.

"Where's this coming from?" she asked, monitoring his expression carefully for any changes.

He suddenly grew nervous; she hadn't replied yet. If she hadn't replied yet then the answer was definitely 'no', right? She was stalling. She hadn't replied. He dug his hands deeper into his pockets and tried to keep his face as blank as possible.

"You didn't answer my question".

"You'll get your answer when you give me mine".

He considered that for a moment. If she was offering to make a trade, then surely she had an answer to give him. She'd already decided and there was nothing he could do about it. Okay, I'll bite.

"Don't you want more out of life than crappy motel rooms and diner food? I mean, wouldn't you be happier with a guy like Stefan?" Dread.

Stefan. So it _was _about him. Sherry felt a red hot anger spread through her body; how _dare_ he over-step his boundaries like that?

"He talked to you, didn't he? Ugh, this is just so like him! Is this what's been bothering you this whole time?" she fumed.

Dean looked away, and that alone was more telling than words could have ever been.

She took a deep breath and tried to decide how to approach this; if she didn't put it strongly enough, he'd shut down, and then there'd be no getting through to him. She always had Dean down as the type. Protective. Territorial. He considered her his territory, and any man that over-stepped the boundaries would gladly be served with two black eyes and knee in the groan. But she and Stefan hadn't even been that serious. In fact, this was the first time she had been in a serious relationship. Like ever.

"Stefan," she began, "is a sophisticated man and a brilliant reporter".

He looked down and smiled grimly. So this was how she felt. How could he have ever thought otherwise? How could he have even _believed_….

Seeing the distress on his face, she quickly continued, "But he is also selfish. And a coward. Baby, you and him don't even fall on the same scale!"

He looked up and into her eyes for the first time during the entire conversation. Was she telling the truth? She immediately saw the doubt on his features, and did her best to appease it.

"Yes, I am happy. More happy than I have ever been".

This reassured him a little…but not completely. His question hadn't covered all of his fears.

"Alright, maybe you are happy now, but what about in a couple months? A couple of years? Won't you eventually get tired of this lifestyle….the constant moving around, the constant danger, not having a home, not being able to see the same people twice? Aren't you gonna get fed up at some point? Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but some day?"

She suddenly stepped away from him and gave him a firm look. This only elevated his panic to a whole new level.

"Do you know what we did today?" she asked in a serious voice. A voice that grew more excited with each word she spoke, "We saved someone's _life_! I mean, how many people get to do that on a weekly basis?" she began pacing and moving her hands animatedly. "And I love the excitement and danger that comes with it, with killing the bad guys. But you know what the best part is?" she said as she abruptly stopped her incessant movement and stood to face him. "It's when you know someone who would be otherwise dead is alive because of you. It's what makes it all worth it, and I wouldn't give that up for the whole world".

The whole world. Not for champagne or roses or diamonds. Not for the whole world. He looked into her eyes, and the only thing he could see there was sincerity. She meant it.

She stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. Instinctively, his moved around her slim waist and clasped themselves there so tightly it hurt. She didn't mind.

"And there's another reason I stick around".

He stared at her, impatiently waiting for her to continue. "What?" he finally demanded.

"You".

His gaze dropped down, and she tilted her head forward trying to catch his eyes.

She pressed herself close, as close as he would let her. "I love you, and if holding onto that means fighting a couple extra demons along the way, then bring em' on".

He looked up once more, and his expression was hard. He stared at her for a moment, and before she could react, he had caught her lips with his in an unbreakable lock which she only secured…the moment her head stopped spinning, that is. It was like the stars had never shined brighter.

End

33


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